The Aftermath
by ink and ashes
Summary: Sometimes, it takes more than courage. Spoilers. Slighty A.U.
1. Her Embrace

**HER EMBRACE**

Somehow, _somehow_, she had beaten that deceptive Little Ogre in their race for the crumbling statue that was his soul. He could not fathom how, nor did he particularly care to. Those streaming pigtails, that dimpled grin, those bottomless moss-green eyes… never had he been so happy, so unbelievably _relieved_ to see them.

When the Little Ogre had attempted to consume him, Soul did the only thing he could think of with absolutely no time to formulate any kind of defense—something, he knew, was entirely his own fault. Playing on that damned piano with those perfectly tuned keys of ivory had tempted him; his comrades' determination and his Meister's unwavering faith had goaded him onward. His twisted, ear-piercing melody of raging turmoil had been his only thought, his only priority. _Just a little more_, he had sworn, accelerating towards a crescendo as the pull of insanity tugged at him with tiny claws and when Maka had reared back for a powerful swing, he had been all but blind to anything and everything but her and that absurdly powerful Kishin, Asura.

It had been his own fault, he knew. He had always known that the Little Ogre was sly. Had known that the creature wanted only his soul and would use whatever means necessary in order to devour it. The gamble for power had been a badly dealt hand on his part, but he should have had some kind of contingency plan. Perhaps Maka, in all of her impulsive and whimsical ways, had become a bad influence on him. On that note, Crona must have had some kind of effect as well, since all he could think to do was _hide_.

_Way_ uncool.

Frozen as he was in this odd statue, he could not have moved if he tried. Maka, unaffected by his nudity as she was her own, flew towards him with unyielding strength in those impossibly large eyes of hers, wrapping her thin arms around him without hesitation. She was incredibly warm, he noticed in some small, inconsequential niche in his mind that had not grown still at the sight of a thousand jagged tendrils of darkness flying towards them, and her presence stabbed through the cold rock of his prison with the iridescent light that flickered around her soul. "I'm here," she murmured, tightening her embrace. It was comforting, he thought, wishing he could return the gesture before they were _both_ eaten by the hungry, growling Black. This reminded him of warm Nevada mornings and the scent of her early morning breakfast. The unity when they played basketball and the wave of contentment after one of their silly, last-minute parties that had been thrown together for whatever equally silly reason they could come up with. The first time Maka had slain an enemy and the texture of his very first soul.

Mere milliseconds felt like an eternity as memory after memory erupted from the crevices of his soul, each emotion and thought he had ever held dear gushing to the surface. If Maka had been his sibling instead of the perfect Wes Evans in his cold, cold family, he would have never left. Their only bond was Weapon and Technician—and a friendship even the Gods would not dare to break—but for a fleeting moment, one he was convinced would be their last as sane and healthy humans, he wished she were his blood. A sister he would have been proud of. A sister he could have grown up with and could have shared all of the knowledge of music she so painfully did not possess. A sister he could love instead of the brother he so envied and hated.

If Maka had been born his sister, he would have been complete.

Those cold snakes slithered around them in suffocating ropes, covering them in an inky, sticky puddle of impenetrable darkness. He shut his eyes, unable to breathe. "Maka," he wheezed, not knowing what he wanted to say but powerless to suppress her name from his lips.

He could never tell her how much he would regret not being able to watch her grow into the incredible woman he knew she would one day become. The swell of pride in his chest would have been that of a father's, perhaps. He could never tell her how every tear, whine and fear had enabled him to become stronger _with _her, the uncanny ability to voice some of his personal demons as her own had allowed him to console not only her, but himself. He wished he could have said, "Good job," instead of, "Looks like all of that obsessive studying paid off, bookworm." That she would make one hell of a Meister one day—that she already _was_ one hell of a Meister—and the best partner he could have ever imagine and, maybe, when she was all grown up and ready to settle down, that any guy she met would have to have _his_ approval before they touched her, since Soul could not count on her father, Spirit, to actually be of any help. _So much regret. _He was too intent on keeping up appearances, too young and headstrong to simply blurt out the truth.

And then, their time was up.

_Courage._

_Have courage._

In retrospect, he should have had a _tad_ bit more faith in the girl he had thought so highly of.

Of course, in his defense, he was certain that their souls were already lost, that the battle with Asura would be forfeit as a result and the world would have been plunged into chaos without either Maka or himself able to so much as lift a finger to stop it. Soul Eater had been resigned to his fate, saddened that he had—once again—brought her down with him. Had brought the _world _down with him. There had not been a single doubt in his mind that her face would have been the final image he would carry with him into the next life.

But if there was a Paradise, he was sure that Little Ogre would _not_ be in it no matter how tiny that infernal creature had gotten.

The large, gold-framed portraits hanging on the pale walls around them were fading into images from his memory. Maka's smiling face, his own toothy grin as he sat by the untouched piano. He stared at them for a moment before glancing at the girl beside him, one of his arms slung over her shoulder out of necessity. "You're such an idiot," he managed, watching her. "But you're the coolest partner a Weapon could have." He was smiling before he could help himself and when she answered with a small giggle, his palpitating heart finally calmed. Somehow this little girl, he reflected as he straightened with her guiding hands to support him, had saved him from a nightmare. It did not seem possible, but she'd done it. How in the _hell_, he wondered, was he going to repay her for this? It was obvious that he would need to get stronger in order to prevent this from ever happening again; one near-death experience of this magnitude was quite enough for today, thank you very much. This was the _last_ thing they needed to worry about when there was Asura wreaking all kinds of mayhem out there.

"Aw, _damn_," sighed Little Ogre, small and hopeless atop that flawless, beckoning piano. "After everything I've done, I'm right back _here_ again." Soul smirked. The photos were blinking into existence quicker now, surrounding them with all of the happy faces he had come to hold so dear. His soul, weakened from confinement, was healing. He would get better. They would get through this. They would leave this room—_together—_and they would kick the ever-loving _shit_ out of that asshole Kishin waiting for them.

Once he had eaten Little Ogre, he joined hands with his Technician and—_together—_they left the Black Room.

**SPECIAL THANKS: **_One Song for Me_, as she proof-read and made sure this didn't sound like crap.


	2. Her Agony

**HER AGONY**

His large hand encompassed the majority of her right side, gently at first. Testing. She could barely hear his ceaseless babbling, could barely see through the foggy lens of her subconscious, could barely feel the slight sting as blade after blade extended from her bones and tore through her skin—a fact that she would aptly freak out over once this was all said and done. When he slowly applied pressure to her ribcage, he was testing her. When he smiled and squeezed his fist closed around the fragile bones of her slender abdomen. _He was openly mocking her_. He was _bleeding_ everywhere, dots of the vile blackness peppering her face, her scrapes, her clothes from wounds inflicted by her body's alarming response—a _Weapon_ gene, no less—but he laughed at the tightening of her eyes. Laughed as the fog cleared, her pupils dilated and a scream tore itself from her esophagus, loud and shrill and cracking as a fragment of bone punctured her lung.

The blades shattered, disappearing once her body realized she was _awake,_ albeit still defenseless. Asura, his uneven teeth glistening with spittle, grinned as he squeezed once more, seemingly content with her unholy shrieking. He reveled in the sound of her utter defeat while she knew only pain.

Soul watched, paralyzed.

Those hands, those _filthy_ hands**,** clutched at the tender muscles of her neck, lifting her until she hung like a limp doll before him. Her nose inches from his, he sneered at her, crowing with victory. "Just let it consume you," Asura cooed, his quiet voice humming with the dark purr of madness. "You'll never feel fear or pain again, I promise you." A leather strap encircled her throat once the Kishin freed his final opponent to the extensions of his own skin, turning away from the pathetic girl-child shivering in his hold to gesture grandly at the pitiful sight her friends made about them. Once his own fears were assuaged and he was confident in his victory, it seemed Asura had a flair for the dramatic. He watched her grimace and chuckled. "Accept it, or end up like _them_."

The shivering, it was noted, stopped at his words. The little blonde seemed to have irrevocably surrendered to the honeyed poison of the Kishin's voice. "At least," she croaked, fighting to speak over the haze of darkness that threatened to overwhelm her, "…at least I'm not… _afraid_… anymore."

Asura froze, uncertainty apparent in his expression. His very soul seemed perturbed. "What was that, _insect_?" His teeth were glistening again.

The little blonde—that whimpering, fragile little girl-child that had cried in agony beneath Asura's superior strength—_dared_ to raise her nose high in the air, the insult clear regardless of her helpless position. The change in demeanor was evident, even to a raving Kishin. Her lips cut a jagged smile across her messy, blood-speckled face, her teeth revealing themselves in a macabre rapture. Soul, who managed to move a few fingers and little else, noticed how the mossy green of her eyes were darkening, the pupil completely devouring the iris; one eye left a tiny rim of sickly yellow around the impossibly enlarged pupil, the other sporting a glowing purple. Through their unspoken connection—a bond all Technicians and their Weapons shared ever after their initial Soul Resonance—there was a small current, a low hum of delirium and, beneath that, mindless pleasure. "You heard me," giggled the girl, her voice a shadow of its former self, "…asshole."

"Maka," was Soul's broken cry as he used what little strength he could to maneuver his weight onto the side that caused him the _least_ amount of pain. Only Soul would understand this odd mixture of despair and liberation within his headstrong partner, since he—along with Crona—had been present during the one and only time his Meister had willingly given herself to the insanity that dwelled within him. Through Soul Resonance, the Black Blood tainting Soul had engulfed Maka until she had abandoned all reason, but Soul had been strong enough to bring the _both_ of them back.

Not this time. Maka was on her own in that choking thrall of madness.

"Soul," came a soft, concerned voice from his left. Wrenching his eyes away from his cackling, crazed partner, Soul found the Weapon Tsubaki limping towards him with her Technician, Black Star, leaning against her. From the tremulous give-and-take of their weight distribution, it seemed that they were using each other to counter their individual inability to coordinate the balance necessary to walk, among other issues. "Soul, are you all right?" she inquired, wincing when they finally reached his side. Tsubaki laid a noticeably unsteady hand on his shoulder, kneeling over him indecisively. "Will you be okay if I move you?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. At her continued hesitance, he mustered a small smirk. "But do it anyway. I'm kinda sick of eating dirt here." In spite of the slight attempt at humor, the kunoichi's frown deepened and it was not until he'd been yanked onto his back that he realized why. She had known it was going to hurt him. "_Aw shit_."Stars were dancing before his eyes.

"What happened to _you_?" groused Black Star, interrupting Tsubaki's apology as he clutched his side. It was a wonder the loud and obnoxious Technician could still stand.

Soul glared at the question but not at the inquirer. _His own inadequacy. _"I tripped," was his sardonic answer, unable and unwilling to elaborate. He should have been stronger, faster, _smarter, _but he needed little help in his degradation and he was sure they felt no differently. A few yards away, the sister Weapons were helping the struggling Kid to his knees with little success and Soul used this to his advantage, steering the conversation away from his own failings. "Let's go see if we can help them," he suggested, nodding his head towards the pistols, Elizabeth and Patricia. What he _wanted_ to do was jump in the fray and assist Maka in any way he could. For the time being, he was carefully keeping his eyes away from the struggle occurring mere meters from them out of shame. He was too weak to _move_ on his own, so how could he possibly help her? _How_? There _had_ to be a way, damn it.

"Can you walk?" asked Tsubaki with more than a hint of uncertainty. Did he look _that_ bad?

"I'd better," Soul quipped, gritting his teeth against the sensation of a thousand daggers digging into his legs. He bore it until he could manage an undignified hobble towards the trio of comrades he'd yet to see, spurred forward by concern over the _massive hole_ where Kid's right shoulder used to be. Peering behind him, he saw that Tsubaki had resumed her odd dance-strategy of walking with Black Star, limping towards Elizabeth, Patricia and their Meister with the same vigor she had exhibited in reaching Soul.

Their plan was, unfortunately, thwarted when the ground they entrusted their quivering balance upon shifted and quaked angrily, tossing the adolescents to and fro in its wrath. Limbs askew, they landed amid the rubble of their despondent battlefield, new injuries cascading atop the ones they had struggled to overcome before. Soul was slammed against a broken slab of jagged concrete and something _cracked_ inside, eliciting more blood than he could cough up at one time. One glance towards the others proved just as grim; Black Star and Tsubaki were crawling towards each other with strength born of pure determination. The only good in all of this was that they had gotten closer to the remaining team, but as Elizabeth and Patricia were now nearly as immobile as their wielder, it was little condolence. Soul wiped his face against the arm of his jacket, stifling the violent hacking before he lost an organ in the process, and his eyes found their way to his Technician of their own accord.

Maka was laughing uproariously at something—probably nothing—as she pointed at the Kishin, slapping her knees for effect. She was hunched over, he noticed, her head tilted at an odd angle and parallel to her right shoulder. Asura stood some distance away, his expression solemn and thoughtful as he gazed at the wild Technician with vague disapproval. Perhaps it was her lack of footwear that offended him? Soul found it puzzling but compared to what was at stake, he really did not care that Maka had taken off her shoes and socks at one point. As her ash-blonde hair billowed freely in an unnatural breeze, a chill went down his spine.

He had to reach her. He _had_ to, before he lost her forever.

**SPECIAL THANKS: **_One Song for Me_, as always, for her help.**  
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